


The Way It Is

by thedropoutandthejunkie (elenajames)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Caretaker Dean, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Nightmares, Platonic bed sharing, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:21:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9006196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elenajames/pseuds/thedropoutandthejunkie
Summary: Sleep is for the innocent and the ignorant. The brothers cope.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Written as part of BSCG's Secret Santa for onesketchbeforesleep.

_ He’s helpless, held down by Azazel and Lucifer as the fire spreads, blood dripping down onto him as JessMomJess burns on the ceiling, terrified eyes locked on him and he can’t look away. The door bursts open, just like the first time, just like every time, and Dean comes barrelling in only for him to burst into flame, too -  _

 

Choking back a yell, Sam rolls himself over in bed, pushing his face into the pillows. He drags one close, holds it tight and wills himself to stop shaking. It’s 2 AM, according to the LED clock on his bedside table, a scant two hours after he’d gone to sleep. The shakes go, eventually, but sleep never comes back. Sam stays in bed for as long as he can stand it, at least trying to rest if he can’t sleep, getting up when it’s a less-unreasonable hour. 

 

Not even copious amounts of Dean’s dangerously-strong coffee can keep him awake, though, and it’s barely after lunch before he’s drifting off at odd intervals.

 

“Sam?” 

 

He jolts a little in his seat, blinking blearily at the keyboard in front of him. Eyes gritty, Sam rubs at them briefly before trying to turn his attention back to his brother. 

 

“Jesus, Sammy.” He hates that tone. It’d almost be better if it was the aggravation Dad used to say it with, but Dean only sounds worried. Sam hates making Dean worry, conscious of the tight lines around his brother’s mouth and eyes. 

 

“I’m fine. Just didn’t sleep much. Nightmares, you know?” Of course Dean knows; Dean’s had his share of sleepless nights and groggy mornings, both of them depending on caffeine more in the mornings than they did on the road. It’s almost like the the trauma has settled in, skated its way right past their barely-lowered defenses to take up residence in the backs of their skulls. 

 

“Yeah. Just . . . let me know if I can help, okay?” 

 

Sam’s in his thirties and still occasionally has to share a room with his brother to sleep through the night. It’d be embarrassing if it didn’t go both ways. Turns out that, after years of living inside small motel after small motel, hearing the other breathing and snuffling (or snoring, in Dean’s case) in their sleep is an ingrained part of being able to rest peacefully. 

 

Tiredly, he nods, shutting his laptop and standing up. No point in trying to research when he can barely look at the screen. “Mind if I use your room?” 

 

“Go for it. You okay by yourself?” 

 

The question makes Sam’s cheeks pink, but he says yes anyway. Dean nabs his pile of research, turning back to his own laptop as he digs for information requested by Garth. It’s nothing pressing, otherwise Sam would’ve bucked up, down a cup of coffee and doused his face in cold water so he could go back to the grindstone. Now, he heads for Dean’s room, leaving his shoes and socks by the door as he shuts it gently behind him. 

 

There’s a fold-away bed in one corner, identical to the one stored in Sam’s room, but Sam’s only here to nap, not stay the night. He collapses face first into the bed, shoving away Dean’s weird memory foam pillow and gathering up one of the soft, downy ones shoved off to the side. All of the rooms in the bunker are cool, blissfully dark without the lights on. Dean’s smells like leather and his favorite cologne, and the tiniest hint of gunpowder clings to his sheets. It smells like home, tugging Sam down into sleep. 

 

He wakes with his face damp and a solid hand rubbing circles over his shoulders. 

 

“You’re okay, kiddo. That wasn’t that bad, huh?” 

 

Sam can’t remember it, so no, not bad. His heart isn’t racing and the tears stop pretty much as soon as he’s awake. It’s definitely been worse. 

 

“You’ve been out a couple of hours. Didn’t think you’d wanna sleep longer, or you’ll never be able to tonight.” 

 

“Yeah,” Sam agrees, clearing his throat when it catches. “Thanks.” 

 

Dean just traces gentle patterns over Sam’s back until Sam finally pushes up, gently dislodging his brother so he can sit up properly. They scoot so they’re sitting side-by-side, Sam trying to drag the world back into focus. 

 

“S’almost supper. You wanna go out?” 

 

Going into town sounds exhausting, but Sam knows staying the bunker for too many days on end is bad for them both. Despite artificial light, the halls are sometimes depressingly dark, shadows lurking in the corners and yeah. Sam can feel the want for sunlight and fresh air building up inside him, so he nods. 

 

“Let me change. I’ll meet you in the garage.” 

 

Getting out is good, the bar is fairly quiet and Dean’s clearly enjoying his ‘not flirting’ with the bartender, Donnie. Hot fries and cool beer leave Sam pleasantly warm and full; the burger is a bit much, the smell of the meat not sitting well with him, so Sam pushes it towards Dean. It still impresses him, after all this time, just how much his big brother can put away, but there’s also the content feeling that comes along with Dean’s happiness. 

 

They don’t stay til bar close as they would’ve done as younger men, choosing to bid Donnie good night and leaving a healthy tip in his jar not long after the sun goes down. Dean keeps the music on low, taking his time maneuvering them down the highway and out of town. Sam doesn’t mean to fall asleep, he really doesn’t, but he finds himself waking up in the now-quiet Impala. He cracks an eye to find Dean staring out the window. Sometimes Sam wonders if the Impala is a liminal space; time doesn’t matter here, everything they’ve done and everything they’ve been through dissipating to leave only who they are. For the briefest moment, when Dean looks over at him, Sam’s sixteen again, twenty year old brother carefree and soft. It makes his eyes prickle and his heart clench, but in the best of ways. 

 

“Time for bed, Sammy,” Dean says softly. That moment is gone in a blink of an eye as the Impala roars to life, lights flooding the empty field Dean had parked them in. Sam settles into the familiar dent his body has left in the Impala’s front seat, settles into her rhythm and the beat of Dean’s fingers on the steering wheel as he hums Zeppelin to himself. 

 

And he’s okay. 


End file.
